#etoilebleu

@etoilebleu ( eris. ) / semi-plotted starter

Bron'ig sat in a sleazy cantina sipping at the mug in his drink with a delight. He was savoring the alcoholic beverage with gloved hands, helmet at his side and AT EASE. The Mandalorian armor donning his body was already a deterrent from the other patrons. The dark bags under his eyes, rugged look, and hardness to his entire aura staved off even the bravest looking for a fight.

The slave trade he was intercepting was meant to happen the next day, so all he could do was wait. He hated the waiting.

( So why not have some fun? )

Glancing around the bar he was searching for any despicable acts that he could easily dispatch. Bron'ig was itching for a fight.

Then pulse of GRIEF rippled through the Force and it had his spine straightening

( OH. Now what in the Force is that? )

As he caught the thread, his lips twitched dangerously.

( Hello there. )

In a swift movement, the dark Jedi grabbed the helmet and shoved it over his head as he stood. Despite such a crowded cantina, he had no problem leaving. People moved out of his way. Bron'ig never had a problem walking through a crowd: either they parted themselves or he parted them with his mind.

Excitement danced under his skin and his veins as he followed the feeling. It brought him through the streets, across the city nearly. The longer it took, the more excited he got. To have a pulse that strong, something good must have happened.

The last thing he expected was a SINGULAR PERSON. Bron'ig watched her from across the market. Carefully. Like a predator watching their prey. People started noticing a Mandalorian and pointing him out.

( Well that's no good. )

Bron'ig approached the jewelry stand the woman was looking at under the pretense to also look at it. That's when his eyes found the brooch. It was like a punch to the gut, and he couldn't help the pulse of ANGER, GRIEF, SORROW, and DARKNESS that tears him open. In an instant he shut the lid.

The brooch was covered in jewels of diamond and aquamarine. It was a beautiful bouquet of lilies around a simple geometric design.

( NOT A SIMPLE GEOMETRIC DESIGN - THE SYMBOL OF CLAN KRYZE )

@etoilebleu sent﹕

"Stop   looking   at   me   like   that." ( calla 👀 )

it wasn't until calla pointed it out that he realized he'd been staring. probably hunched over like a bloody shrimp, most definitely squinting like a sun-blinded mole. subtlety was never his thing. not when it came to observing good engineering being properly taken care of, anyway.

" ach— well, i'm s'posed to, aren't i? " he scoffed, maybe a touch too defensively, shifting his weight like the deck had suddenly gone uneven. arms moving from behind his back to cross over his chest. he leaned against the nearest railing, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to sheepish.

Ms. Taylor was history. At least that was what William had hoped when he overheard the shouting match ensuing between his father and his duplicitous mistress. It wouldn't be the first time that the two had argued only to persist in their dysfunction. William, unfortunately, was caught right in the middle, whether his father was aware of it or not. His own son, in a 'complicated' and iniquitous affair with the woman he did not love nor care for, but kept for his own amusement. William wasn't going to risk staying indoors if it meant that revelation was about to unfold(if it had not before, he had no reason to believe it would now), and so he slipped out unaware and saddled Cerberus for what might be a lengthy tour around Pemberley's grand park. The beauty of it almost lost to him, when most good feelings associated with the estate belonged to the memory of his late mother. Memories that were growing more difficult to reclaim as the years dragged on. Though she would be relieved to know that she was not the only safe place in her son's life; a safe space—a safe person—who appeared just over one of the lush hills, as though right on cue.

William slowed Cerberus to a trot and groaned to himself. Now was not a good time for one of Eris's ritualistic walks to Pemberley. He almost wished her away, but the guilt which would surely follow would have gnawed away at him until there was nothing left but bone. In a world full of people who he did not wish to engage, Eris was not one of them. He would regret every thought, every petty annoyance and every attempt at pushing her away, if she ever did go away. It was much too late to pretend that their eyes had not acknowledged one another at a distance, anyway. With a gentle tug of the reins, he guided his horse in her direction.

it's not unusual for him to find himself outside of the confines of moscow - of russia as a whole when there are things that others have proven incapable of handling. when one agent fails, pentele is sent in after them to clean up the mess left behind, and this is no different.

but it's absolute happenstance. every fragment of the universe aligning in a way that, for once, favors him. at least, that's the way that he'll see it after it settles. after it all connects that maybe, just maybe, there's a chance that something good is still in store for him, even it's, at first, just a glimpse of something so deeply familiar that it's visceral.

it's habit to, once he steps into a place, scan the people inside, and this café is no different, getting the once over that stutters in the corner where a woman - dark hair, bright eyes, faint pursing of her lips as she brings her mug up to them for a sip that strikes him deeply - sits on her own.

he stares, perhaps too long -- definitely too long. before forcing himself to keep moving. but she lingers, staying in every corner of his brain as he approaches the counter and places his order for something simple, something he doesn't even pay attention to but pays for regardless.

when he's eventually given his drink, he takes a chance.

not just a chance to see if maybe he's right, but a chance to cause even more damage. to himself, to a stranger, to whatever the universe has in store for each of them.

stepping up to the table the familiar faced woman is at, he clears his throat, adjusting the strap of his knapsack over his shoulder and almost mutters. "excuse me... ma'am? i'm sorry but..." and then nothing. nothing else can come, because even if it isn't her, that face that is now close enough to see intimately... it breaks him.

closed starter for Saira ( @etoilebleu)

Poe entered the cantina with his head held high. This place was a known hive of scum and villainy but it was also a place where the Resistance could be without too much fear of the First Order finding them. Spies were everywhere but they normally avoided this particular place, which suited Poe just fine. He strolled leisurely up to the bar and ordered a drink. Once served, Poe made his way to one of his favourite spots in this place: a small booth that allowed almost full view of the cantina but secluded enough that any conversation held within it remained private.

It was here that Poe relaxed in his seat and waited for his 'date' to arrive. He checked the display of his hand-held communicator to see he had arrived slightly ahead of the agreed meeting time. This gave him the opportunity to do something rare: relax.

Well, not completely relax. He still kept his eyes alert as he cast hia gaze across the cantina, taking in all of the rogues and vagabonds assembled here, trying to pick out any potential threats. On the other side of the bar, a fight broke out over cheating in a sabacc game but for the moment, no one was paying attention to him.

Diego's gaze narrows as he studies June, the tension between them crackling like electricity in the air. Every instinct screams at him to be ready, to defend himself, but there's something about her demeanor that's throwing him off. She’s acting like she doesn’t recognize him, like they’re just strangers crossing paths—but he knows better. They’ve crossed swords too many times for her to forget, and the thought that she might be trying to pull one over on him now makes his blood boil.

He takes another step closer, his boots scuffing against the floor as he closes the gap. His hand, almost on autopilot, moves to his belt, fingers wrapping around the hilt of his knife. The familiar weight of it is a comfort, a reminder that he's always ready for a fight, even when it’s against someone like her—someone who knows him almost too well.

"Cut the shit," he says, voice low and dangerous, each word laced with the barely restrained anger that’s simmering just beneath the surface. "You know exactly who I am. We’ve been through this before—too many damn times for you to play dumb now."

He takes a moment, his eyes scanning her face for any sign of recognition, any crack in the mask she’s putting up. But she’s good—too good. And that only pisses him off more.

"You think I’m that fucking stupid? That I’d forget everything that’s happened between us? Every fight, every word? I’m not falling for whatever game you’re trying to play this time." His grip tightens around the knife, and for a second, he considers drawing it, just to see if that’ll break through her facade. But he hesitates—something about the situation isn’t sitting right, and he can’t afford to make a mistake now.

Sinday headcanons || accepting

A deep inhale of air, a slow exhale; Marc considers the question for a moment, knits his brows, but then shrugs after a little while.

"...I don't think I did." At least he cannot remember having ever done such a thing - not consciously, that is. "Never even considered to do such a thing. Dunno, honestly. I either had something... or I didn't."

---Steven's shaking his head immediately, as soon as he's handed the body. "I would never!" And he means it. "Like... w-why would I do that? I mean, sure, we all can feel sad sometimes if we don't get what we want - doesn't matter whether it's a physical thing or a, you know, a... non-physical one! Like a relationship or a connection or---"

A blink, a second shake of his head, followed by Steven clearing his throat. "Erm, a-anyways - no, I don't think I ever did. I... I would never do that. It would be unfair and... really, really mean, after all."

When Jake takes over the body, he blinks once - then lifts both brows, tilts his head, lips pursing for a moment or two.

There is a hint of a smirk tugging on his mouth then...

"---You really shouldn't do it - the whole 'ruining something because you cannot have it'- thing, I mean." Wise words being spoken, huh? Jake shrugs, a hint of amusement appearing within his dark eyes.

A hum, a second of hesitation...

"...When that one asshole-guy didn't want to sell me that car of his - even though I offered him more money than anyone else did - I felt... let's say, mildly offended. Don't think he ever figured out why his spotless limousine was suddenly having some engine problems... ---ah, well. Bad luck, I guess." ... "As I said: Don't do it. That's not how adults deal with problems and shit. Tienes que ser mejor que eso."

"Dimitri!" he glided up to the food stall, swaying a tiny bit. He started speaking animatedly in Ukrainian to the owner, not realizing he had cut someone off in line quite abruptly.